


now i'm home and i'm blind and i'm broke

by monsterjournalism, throats



Series: mics are for singing not swinging [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Punisher (Comics), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Gen, cop lives don't matter, good news: dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 04:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12833751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterjournalism/pseuds/monsterjournalism, https://archiveofourown.org/users/throats/pseuds/throats
Summary: how is it that the only ones responsible for making this mess got their sorry asses stapled to a goddamn desk?-bucky barnes works with vets every day. one of those veterans is frank castle. [set before "hold the mic".]





	now i'm home and i'm blind and i'm broke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [musicspeakstoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicspeakstoo/gifts).



> abbey asked me what bucky barnes thinks of frank castle. this is me and sadie showing up two weeks late with starbucks and a whole lotta feelings about curtis hoyle.
> 
> minor content warnings for: general references to war and war-related trauma and injuries, PTSD, ableism & gallows humor re: ableism
> 
> note added on 12/3/18: thanks to [TransWonderWoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TransWonderWoman/pseuds/TransWonderWoman) and [musicspeakstoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicspeakstoo) for helping me correct a mistake i'd made in an earlier version of this fic – bucky is jewish and thus, wouldn't really by using "christ" as a curse.

Curt lingers after the day’s meeting, but that’s not the unusual part. It’s the way he’s moving. Slow, distracted. Chewing on something he doesn’t know how to spit out.

Bucky’s seen that expression a lot, in this line of work. Just never on Curt, who always knows exactly what he wants to say, typically reading off from his journal when he speaks in group. Curt likes to read, likes to write. Likes to think through his shit.

This, though. Bucky can tell from a mile off - this ain’t _that_.

“So you gonna tell me what’s on your mind or you gonna keep me waiting?” Bucky leans against the wall, crossing his arms.

Curt sighs, shifts his balance. There’s a slight tilt to him - he’s keeping the lion’s share of his weight on his right leg, off the prosthesis. Bucky can tell he’s getting itchy, that he’s probably worn it too long. He doesn’t say anything about it.

“Captain from my unit’s been discharged,” he says, finally. The words come slow and steady.

Bucky’s been a good listener since he was a kid - good at listening to Steve’s rattling lungs, searching for the moment to make him stop what he was doing and wait for breath; good at listening for the right spot to interrupt his pop’s speech at the dinner table; good at listening for what doesn’t want to be heard, a dry leaf or snapped twig giving the enemy away in the dark.

It’s all about patience, really. Same kind of patience you need to lay on a patch of dirt for three days, chin to your rifle.

But sometimes, Bucky’s gotta shake the tree.

“You happy about that?” Bucky asks. Knows Curt’s CO was supposed to be watching out while he stitched a kid back together. CO missed the pregnant woman with an IED in her belly. Curt lost the leg, the kid stayed apart.

“I am,” Curt says. This he’s sure of. Bucky can see it in the sharpness of his large eyes, no less fierce for their calm. “It’s not that he’s coming home that bothers me.” Bucky waits a beat, doesn’t ask what does bother him. “It’s his discharge.”

That piques Buck’s attention.

“Honorable,” Curt says, just as Bucky raises his chin in interest. “Got shot. Friendly fire.”

Ah. That’d be it then. Bucky’s known a handful of men who’ve been shot by their own. Not just the men who come through Second Lives, but in-country, too. It’s a bad goddamn shake.  He reaches up and touches the knotwork of scars on his collarbone unconsciously.

 

* * *

 

Four months later, a guy shows up at the office. He’s tall and broad and his face is partly concealed under a wild mop of hair, stray curls jutting out from under a beanie and hood. He’s bearded, the planes of his face visible to Bucky a riot of black, blue, and every shade in between. Above his left eye there are fresh sutures.  

His boots are standard issue and his dark colored field jacket looks worse for the wear. He’s standing in the doorway, moving his weight back and forth, eyes big and wide. Both his hands are shoved into his pockets and everything about him is large, imposing, despite how worn he looks.

Rachel, who’s manning the front desk, pretends to read the paper. She’s watching him. Bucky thinks, from the vantage point of his office doorway, that the guy’s aware - his dark eyes keep tracking back to her, and he’s positioned carefully in the corner where the door and wall meet.

But just as Bucky’s about to speak, Curt’s walking out from the room where he’s setting up for his own meeting. He’s wearing a suit, which Bucky had told him wasn’t necessary, but he’d insisted, speaking at length about how much running his own group meant to him.

Bucky’s attire mostly consists of t-shirts from Steve’s bands and dark wash denim. Not having a _uniform_ was important for him. But Curt - Curt’s different from Buck in a lot of ways. He enlisted, for one.

“Hey brother,” Curt says, low and warm, a little careful. “It’s good to see you.”

The guy’s eyes snap to the sound of Curt’s voice. Bucky watches, and takes a breath.

Maybe it was the beard, kept the penny from dropping. But the guy is _young_ , Bucky sees, now. His wide brown eyes are gleaming, face relatively unlined, as far as Bucky can tell through his injuries. And there’s an angle to his shoulders, something ephemeral in the minute way he ducks his head that makes Bucky think, _kid. He’s a_ kid _._

“Curt,” he says, gruff. His expression settles, somewhat, studying Curtis. But Bucky doesn’t allow himself to feel easy just yet.

The new arrival’s brow pinches - Bucky watches the line appear between his eyes as he jerks his head toward Curt. “Don’t tell me you went all respectable, Curt,” he says. His voice is a deep rumble, rough. But there’s still that note of youth, shot through the middle of it. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes are gone as fast as they appear, not having yet carved themselves into the permanent topography of his face.

Curt laughs, smoothes over his tie. “That I did,” he says, happily, before stepping forward, closer to the young man - who knows Curt. Bucky’s not an idiot. This has to be the CO he’d mentioned a few months earlier. Curt had mentioned a name, then, too: Frank Castle.

Bucky barked up his own tree with the name. Peggy had gone on to work for the company. She was a good cold warrior - shrewd and fluent in as many languages as there were days in the week. She’d given him the report. (It pays, to be friendly with your husband’s ex. Especially when it gives Bucky access to the kind of information he shouldn’t have.) Castle’s in a bad way. It’s good he’s in their door.

“I had a good CO save my life out there, seemed a shame to throw that away,” Curt says, offering his hand to Castle. Curt hasn’t held Castle responsible for the lost leg. Bucky thinks that’s a sign that Curt might be one of the best men he’s met. Reminds him of Steve, that way.

Castle winces at the words, though. He takes Curt’s hand, but shakes his head. “Don’t-”

“I’ve had my time to make peace with it, don’t take that from me, alright?” Curt cuts him off. His tone is gracious, and he’s still all easy smiles when their handshake ends. “You come for the meeting?” he asks.

Castle shifts his weight again. Not quite swaying, but. Almost. His eyes roam, moving from the pamphlets and posters on the wall - advertising shows, folks looking for roommates, job and volunteer opportunities, a handful of private therapists and halfway houses, a few flyers from the local shelter looking for people to foster dogs and cats - to Rachel at the desk, to the meeting room with its chairs and fresh, shitty coffee. To Bucky, in his office doorway.

Bucky nods at Frank, for good measure, untucking his prosthetic hand from his pocket, keeping his posture as open as possible.

Frank’s gaze lands back on Curt, wide eyes swimming. “Uh, yeah,” he says, nodding several times. “Guess I am.” His voice goes soft, faraway, loses some grit. He can’t be older than twenty-five.

“Good, brother, c’mon in,” Curt says, patting Castle’s arm once before stepping aside.

Bucky realizes, as Castle shifts to walk forward, that he’s carrying a large, standard issue rucksack. It’s tattered and stained, clearly heavily packed. Castle doesn’t strain under the weight and Bucky pulls in a breath.

Frank’s living on the street. Shit. Peg’s report had just been on the shooting.

He makes eye contact with Rachel, who’s been out for two months. Her husband passed two years ago. She’d shipped out again, after. Looking, Bucky figures, to fill whatever hollow had been carved out by the loss. It didn’t work. Now she’s seeing Bucky’s own shrink, trying to adjust to two new realities: civilian life, and widowhood. It ain’t been pretty, which is why he’d found the funding to hire her on.

He jerks his head toward the meeting room. “C’mon, Cole-Alves.”

 

* * *

 

Rachel is playing guitar today. She’d mentioned that she could play, that she grew up in East LA’s backyard punk scene, once, when Steve was by bringing Bucky lunch.

She’s not sitting at the desk, but on top of it, bottom lip between her teeth as she tunes the acoustic guitar. It’s a little beat-up, looks well-loved. But judging from the sounds it makes, Bucky doesn’t think she’s touched it in a long while. Still, the familiar hums and squeaks of the strings in turn pluck at something warm in Bucky’s chest.

It’s not just that music’s a big deal in his own life – aside from spending his youth chasing Steve from show to show, hoping to keep him from hurting himself, it’d been the exact release Bucky needed after getting back. The punk and hardcore scene Steve helped build gave Bucky a brotherhood outside the army, a place to house aggression and sorrow that wasn’t at the bottom of a bottle or, in his youth, actually _talking_ about his feelings like some kind of asshole.

No, the thing that’s really got Bucky feeling hopeful today is that Frank Castle is here, watching Rachel. He’s got a foster pup with him, this time.

Three months after Castle had started showing up to Curt’s meetings, he’d spent an hour staring at the community board wall before ripping down one of the signs that Kate Bishop puts up every month, seeking foster homes for the dogs that come through the shelter where she volunteers.

After his hour in front of the board, Frank’s heavy footsteps had made their way to Bucky’s office. He had two flyers in a hand – one of Kate’s, the other an advertisement for a sublet. _I need a place_ , he’d said.

It’d taken more visits to the VA office – to the Corps’ offices, too – than even Bucky could handle, getting Frank’s disability sorted. _Oy_ , it’d reminded Bucky just how thankful as shit he is that Steve has Nat on payroll. Though she’s technically Marvel’s press person, she moonlights as Second Lives’ boardroom muscle.

And she’d run point on trying to figure out how the fuck Frank’s disability benefits work. The only paperwork Bucky’s ever seen more complicated was his own – and that’s just because three years ago, Stark wanted to pilot test new animatronics and Bucky had agreed. (Much to Steve’s dismay. But Buck wasn’t using the arm anyway, so he didn’t really see the fuss.)

Though it’d taken a handful of months for the ink to dry, nearly as soon as Frank had paid up his first month’s rent and security deposit, he began to appear at Second Lives with a puppy racing ahead of him, or tucked into one arm, or hiding in the hood of his jacket.

The seemingly never-ending stream of foster pups spent their afternoons at Second Lives with Frank. They came with him to weekly group, and when people asked him about his newest charge, Frank would answer them, easy and unguarded.

The fosters are good for him, Bucky decided one afternoon. He’d been watching Frank eat a sandwich, slipping bits of roast beef to the gray ball of fur lounging at his feet.

Today, Bucky’s watching Castle absently play tug o’ war with the pit bull pup he’s been charged with, while the greater part of Castle’s attention is trained on Cole-Alves, who’s struggling through what Bucky thinks is a Bouncing Souls song.

“You’re dropping some strings there, Sergeant,” Castle says suddenly, into the quiet. “B minor.”

Rachel lifts her head and looks at Frank. She stops playing, the guitar squeaking as her hands still. She’s studying Frank with the same quiet intensity she’d laid on him when he’d first arrived, raising her chin slightly. She quirks an eyebrow.

“In the outro,” Castle says, switching the chew toy from one hand to the other. When Rachel still doesn’t respond, he whets his lips, drops the toy, and haltingly makes his way over to the desk.

Castle shoots Rachel a deferential glance, eyes resting mainly on the neck of her guitar. “You barre these four, here,” he continues, pointing to a spot high on fretboard.

Rachel frowns down at her hand, shapes it to the chord. When she tries to hold her finger firm across four strings at once, the sound that comes out is unsteady, an atonal rattle.

“Shit,” Rachel offers.

Frank snorts, chews the corner of his bottom lip. “Yeah. You got that right.”

Rachel gives it a try again, heeding Frank’s advice. When she’s got it figured out, she tilts her face back up at him, frown folded into her brow. “You always a smartass?”

Bucky watches the two of them carefully.

Frank’s shoulders roll back, arms crossed over his chest. There’s a cognizant, almost playful bravado to the pose. It’s undercut by the self-protective set of his arms, wrapped too tight around his ribs to look casual. His shirt’s an off-white color, moth bites at the neckline. “Been known to happen,” Frank answers, not exactly smiling.

There’s a sudden, distracting pressure - the pit puppy, headbutting Bucky’s calf, clearly annoyed that his foster dad’s attention has shifted elsewhere. Bucky’s pretty sure Frank’s calling this one _Fitzgerald_ \- Fitz, for short.

“Shit,” Bucky says, his attention dropping away from Frank and Rachel (still talking, low; Frank’s voice roughened by the menthols he smokes half a pack of at a time and Rachel’s, smooth, deep-seated as ever) to the pup. It’s a coltish thing, head a bit too big for its round body, stumpy legs that trip over each other. And he’s just chewed through his toy, the sad ends of a plushie police officer hanging from the corners of his mouth. Its cottony guts are spilling all over Bucky’s office floor.

The puppy drops the soggy, disemboweled cop, its thick tail swinging back and forth. Bucky stares as its tongue lolls out from one corner of its mouth. He’s a cat person, really, doesn’t have the attention or patience for dogs. He knows that dogs have offered a lot of support to some of the vets he’s seen over the years, but. They just need so much _physical contact_.

Besides, Steve jokes that Bucky’s already got a pack of needy puppies to look after in Second Lives. But at least Bucky doesn’t have to keep his vets from chewing through law enforcement.

Well. He spares a glance for Frank, still speaking with Rachel and sporting a few fading bruises across his cheekbones, in various shades of blue, yellow, green. There’s a cut that’s nearly scabbed over above one hooded eye.

_Most_ of his vets.

Fitz growls softly, nonthreatening, and crouches, tail and ass high up like he’s making to attack. ‘Cept the puppy’s so small and uncoordinated that Bucky has to admit, okay, maybe the misshapen pit bull toddler is a little cute when he launches onto the cotton innards of the now-dead plushie, chewing enthusiastically.

“Aw, hell, kid, don’t eat that,” Bucky mumbles, knowing well enough that it’ll just make the animal sick. Steve’s cat Martha does the same shit, tries to eat Katya’s shedded fur. He drops forward from his desk chair and reaches out to redirect the dog. Bucky makes the executive decision to sacrifice the last of the promotional stress balls they’d ordered because there was a sale at the printer’s.

He waves the ball in his good hand, using the prosthetic to gently nudge Fitzgerald away from the plushie’s remains. “Yeah, there we go,” Bucky mutters when the dog’s head tilts up, two-toned blue and brown eyes zeroing in on the ball.

Just as the dog leaps for it, Frank appears in the doorway. Bucky sees his boots first - at some point he’d switched out the standard issue for a pair in all black, laced tight and worn down but clean, obviously looked after - on account of being crouched on the floor.

When he looks up, dropping the ball for Fitzgerald, Frank’s rocking back and forth; his eyes are wide, jaw ticcing.

“Hey,” he says, low, a whisper that comes out harsh. Bucky hears the concern in it. Frank’s eyes are focused on the dog between Bucky’s knees. Fitzgerald turns his head at the sound of Frank’s voice, before turning his whole body around in a tight circle to face him. Bucky can hear him chewing through the too-soft material of the stress ball. Oh well.

Bucky pats the puppy’s side. “Think he got bored,” Bucky says, rocking back onto his heels before standing. “He’s alright. Brought me this,” he toes at the now-abandoned corpse of the cop plushie, hoping for a dry crack of Frank’s mouth which doesn’t come.

Fitz trips over his own paws as he jogs over to drop his new toy at Frank’s feet. Frank stoops down to scoop up both dog and toy. The puppy looks even smaller in Frank’s hand, tail wagging as he reaches for the ball held in Frank’s opposite hand. He passes it to the dog without looking away from Bucky.

Bucky studies Frank’s face. He’s cut his hair, and shaved, since getting an apartment. Looks a hell of a lot closer to his age, despite a brutal bone structure that, asinine as Bucky knows the notion is, seems out of place in anyone under thirty-five; a skull built to be wrapped in lined, weather-worn skin and scar tissue. (Frank is twenty-four, Buck now knows, and fucking well scarred enough. But young is young.) He thinks it was Curt, got Frank to clean up his face. Teasing him about looking like a hipster. Normally, Bucky wouldn’t think having a superior officer in a group run by a junior from the same platoon would work – there’s usually rules about privacy, personal involvement, in therapeutic settings – but it seems to be working well for Frank. It offers him a familiar face as his point of stability.

That’s part of what Bucky loves about running his own place: they can eschew convention when the situation calls for it. No bureaucratic bullshit in the way.

Still, Frank’s mouth is crooked, one eye a little wider than the other – a sign of distress if Bucky’s ever seen it. And his rocking – often nearly imperceptible – is more conspicuous. He rubs a calloused thumb across the dog’s chest.

Fitz is Frank’s second long-term foster. He had the first for a month and change, before it got adopted out. Kate Bishop, who works at the shelter across the block, had dropped by with some questions, before assigning Frank a new charge.

_He’s kinda intense, huh?_ She’d asked, popping her gum. Kate’s not bad people, but she’s definitely a work in progress. Lives in Brooklyn, freshly graduated from NYU. Wants to save the world in that ‘my parents left me a lotta money’ kinda way.

They’d decided his foster project should be some puppies Kate had gotten in. Feeding them at all hours was running her ragged, and Bucky and Curt were pretty sure Frank was sleeping in two hour bursts - if at all - anyway. The four puppies had just been three weeks, till they were old enough to be weaned. Frank had gotten to keep one of the pups on, to foster till Kate lined up an adoption.

It’s understandable, Bucky thinks, for Frank to be a little overprotective of this one.

“How’s it going, Frank?” Bucky asks, slow. He reaches for the coffee on his desk. Doesn’t sit down, just sips at his now-lukewarm dark roast.

Frank nods several times. “Mmh,” he grunts. “You know.” He clicks his tongue; a glottal stop. Flashes Bucky a dry thumbs up. Fitzgerald pushes his nose into Frank’s chest. “Fitz is good,” he adds, looking down at the small animal tucked in his arm. “Not pissing on the floor anymore.”

Bucky nods. “That’s good, right?”

“Oh yeah,” Frank answers, with a sardonic compression of his mouth. “Madani’s going to be thrilled.”

That draws a snort out of Bucky. Frank’s building super, Dinah Madani, is a piece of work. Bucky had met her when he and Curt were helping Frank move in. (The joke was that between the two of ‘em, Frank had one whole friend.) She honestly reminded him of Frank – intense, rule-oriented. Though her rules are those set by the lease. It doesn’t take much time spent around Frank to know, his own rules trace back to a deeply embedded moral code - the kid’s pathologically goddamn principled. Reminds Bucky of someone he knows.

“You help Rachel out with that Bouncing Souls song?” he asks. Rachel’s still playing, and for the most part each note that streams in through his open office door is an improvement on the one before. He’d recognized the song – Steve’s played a handful of shows with them, even recorded them for a few comps at Marvel – but Bucky doesn’t have a musical bone in his body. He couldn’t have helped even if he’d wanted.

Frank’s expression shifts when the sergeant name drops the band. A presence returned to his eyes, a pinch in his brow. Like he’s amending his mental file on Bucky.

But he doesn’t answer.

Well. “You’ve met my partner, Steve, right?” Bucky knows they’ve been here at the same time, but can’t remember if they’ve spoken. It’d taken a while for Frank to talk to anyone other than Curt.

Frank nods, though. “Yeah,” he says. “Blonde guy, right? With the –” he gestures above his eye, referencing the piercing Steve’s been considering taking out, saying he’s too old for it.

Bucky returns the nod. “That’d be the one,” he says, unable to rein in the smile that tugs on one corner of his mouth. _Vey is mir._ Steve’s still got him like a schoolgirl. He can practically picture Steve standing over Frank’s shoulder, trying and failing to hide a teasing smirk. “He’s played with ‘em a couple times, when he was in Howling Commandos.”

“Huh,” Frank breathes, quiet. A careful pensiveness returning to his features. It’s something Frank is surprisingly good at - signalling to people that he’s listening, weighing their words. Measuring new information against his existing knowledge. “Didn’t know.” There’s a distance in his voice, his eyes momentarily glassy.

Bucky nods, and leans against the wall of his office. It’s glass, so he can watch the common space at the front of the Second Lives facility, keep an eye on things. Private conversations happen in the back, in the office’s kitchenette, at the table that used to live in his and Steve’s kitchen in Brooklyn. It’s paint and ink splattered, from Steve’s days as an illustrator before he threw himself into Marvel Records full time.

He doesn’t think they need to move into the back, though. Frank’s scratching the dog’s ears, eye contact landing only briefly – quick glances up at Bucky, lengthier looks down at Fitzgerald (who’s mewling softly into Frank’s chest, now).  

“You play?” Bucky asks.

Frank’s jaw twitches and Bucky tracks the roll in his throat as he swallows. His eyes roam the room. His hair, though considerably shorter than it was before, is starting to grow out from the buzzcut. It’s longer on the top, sweaty; tossed. The bruises under his eyes aren’t contusions, not like the ones on his cheeks. He can’t be sleeping much.

“Yeah,” Frank rasps. “Always have a guitar on deployment.” His voice is rough as ever, yet improbably juvenescent; something yielding in the timbre. A high baritone rolled in gravel. “Gives you a chance to learn new songs. Come up with new shit.” He raises his shoulders in a stiff shrug.

Bucky knows when he’s not getting the whole truth – especially from Frank, who’s not ready to give everything away to Bucky. Might never be. Which is fine. Bucky knows Frank’s talking to Curt some. Sure as hell more than he’s talking to Bucky.

“You learn on deployment?” Bucky asks, taking another sip of his coffee. He’s going to have to get a new cup after this - his is going cold, and more bitter than he prefers.

“No,” Frank breathes, shaking his head. His mouth thins as he swallows again. His weight’s shifting, anxious energy ratcheting up. “Used to play, in high school.” He shrugs again, the motion forced.

Bucky allows a gentle chuckle to pass through his lips. “Steve, too,” he says, ducking his head just a little to catch Frank’s dropped eye contact. “Used to annoy the shit outta my ma.” His mother, Jesus. She used to say Steve and his guitar were gonna get them both arrested for being reds. If only she’d known.

He pushes the memory away, looks at Frank, keeps his expression open. “You sing too?”

Frank snorts, whets his lips. Bucky’s hit a mark. “Yeah…” Frank’s nose wrinkles. “A bit.” Another shrug, compulsive, but less stiff than before. He exhales, palming the crown of Fitzgerald’s downy head, and continues, “My old man hated it. Made me like it more.”

Bucky smirks and tilts his mug up to Frank. “That’s the way to do it.”

“Can’t really play anymore, though,” Frank adds, drawing Bucky’s concern back into the foreground. Frank taps his skull, where the bullet entered his brain. “Coordination’s shot for it.”

When Frank’s hand falls back down to settle on Fitzgerald’s back, his face smoothes out again and Bucky’s reminded – _over, and over, and over_ – that Frank’s a goddamn kid.

(There’s a voice that sounds too much like _Steve’s_ that reminds him he’s older than Bucky was. But, as Bucky tells the Steve-voice, that don’t change the fact that it’s bullshit.)

He forces his mind to reset. Hard wipe of emotion. Box it away for later. Right now he’s gotta deal with Frank in front of him, who seems to be wavering between being here and being _here_ . Skills drilled into him return. _Trauma Recovery 101: we define ourselves by what we have, not what we’ve lost_.

“You can still sing, right?” Bucky asks, pushing off the wall and shrugging. There’s a slight twist to Frank’s face at the question, so he adds, covering his ass, “Even if it’s just a bit.”

Frank inhales slowly, his chest rising as he breathes in through his mouth. Bucky watches the slow flare of his nostrils when he exhales. “Guess you’re right about that.”


End file.
